


spirit sighing

by icemachine



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 13:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17898863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icemachine/pseuds/icemachine
Summary: The striped bark of the willow tree a reminder of scorching distress, pressing into Ophelia’s flesh and making its unholy mark, the striped bark of the tree burrowing underneath her to further strip her of autonomy.





	spirit sighing

**Author's Note:**

> I was kind of upset, when I read Hamlet for 12th grade ELA, that we never got to read the scene of Ophelia's death, though I understand that it would be awfully hard to perform that on a stage. So, going by what Gertrude says in Act 4 scene 7, I wrote this! Let's see what grade I get.

 

The willow tree, indistinguishable from the forbidden fruit, looks unbearably inviting; the gray leaves of the willow as the leaves of the apple tree, hanging down in its mourning---a mourning for Eve and soon the mourning for Ophelia. One day it will be too burdensome to handle. The striped bark of the willow tree a reminder of scorching distress, pressing into Ophelia’s flesh and making its unholy mark, the striped bark of the tree burrowing underneath her to further strip her of autonomy. 

 

Upon seeing her reflection in the glassed water, an equally vague vision of her father appears behind her. His eyes a striking dimmed light, his skin pale and of nebulous transparency. His torso still mutilated and gushing.

 

The ghost says nothing. The ghost says everything. It is enough to shatter Ophelia once again, to render her nauseous and sick until the ghost fades to mist in the water. She looks behind her---only flowers remain. 

 

Eve was lead to the forbidden fruit by the wretched Satan. Ophelia thinks about Hamlet’s spiral, his cruel treatment of her. The willow tree remains a representation of Ophelia, weeping endlessly. In her mind, Hamlet leads her to the tree by the hand. Her brother and father follow behind him, eyes unopened. 

 

Her hands tremble slightly as she picks the crowflowers. Her hands tremble intensely as she picks the daises---further as she picks the nettles---uncontrollably as she runs her fingers down through the middle of the violet orchid, a calming texture. 

 

Her slender fingers work light-fast as she weaves the flowers together, an action sparking tranquility as she repeats the braids,  _ one stem under another, one stem above.  _ It’s like trying to touch a ghost; one hand under another, one floating above untouchable. It’s like weaving herself into conformity, a new kind of Ophelia who is the walking captured photograph of what everyone wants her to be.

 

The tree looks sad; perhaps Ophelia can lift some of that weight, she thinks, even if it is only temporary until the wind brushes the wreath away. So she places a bare foot into the center of the willow, hoists herself up using both hands, and only feels the branch collapsing when she is thrust into the air---too late to feel a physical shatter, too early to accept the implications of being forced into the water, flowers in hand. 

 

She doesn’t fight it. Her clothes spread out around her, pulling her down slowly, but she doesn’t fight it; instead her voice betrays her, singing the hymns that have been perching in her mind, waiting for a ghastly situation.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> "I can hear your soul crying  
> Listen to your spirit sighing  
> Let yourself go  
> Let yourself go  
> ...  
> Tune in to the lonely voices  
> Talking of their only choices " - Freestate, Depeche Mode


End file.
